


The Creation of Beauty

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artist!Sherlock paints someone who looks an awful lot like John...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Creation of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts), [ineffableboyfriends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableboyfriends/gifts), [breathesomeday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathesomeday/gifts).



> This fic is based on this amazing piece of art: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/34752531325/ineffableboyfriends-trick-or-treat
> 
> I started writing this as a gift to Holly (thehappyfolk) when I thought her Secret Santa had forgotten about her. Luckily, that didn't turn out to be the case, but I still really wanted to write this anyway (and was almost done when I found out she hadn't been forgotten after all). 
> 
> I'm gifting it to reapersun (the artist), ineffableboyfriends (the person who initially requested the art), and thehappyfolk (who said, "I demand this be a fic, like right now"). I hope they all approve of/enjoy it.

“Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is art.”  
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

***

Sherlock lay on the sofa, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared willfully at the ceiling. He was suffering through what he would surely have called the greatest creative drought of his existence and had been for quite some time. Boredom was setting in, and boredom—at least in world of Sherlock Holmes –was a very dangerous thing.

Absolutely through with being beaten by something as mundane as lack of inspiration, he swung his legs to the floor and righted himself. Shedding his dressing gown, he pulled on one of his ‘work’ shirts—already spattered with paint from projects past –and headed toward his easel with conviction. He absently grabbed handfuls of paint—as he’d done thousands of times before –and squeezed them into dollops on a fresh palette, the pigment spluttering out with loud, questionable sounds as pockets of air escaped through the narrow mouths of the tubes.

And, with brush in hand, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. When he exhaled, he could almost feel the stagnation leave his mind and body. The pristine canvas propped in front of him begged for his touch, and he ached to finally provide it after weeks of abstinence.

The first sweep of his brush provided him a release he could never achieve through any other means, and he felt the addiction seeping back into his veins with each successive stroke. His nerves were aflame, senses blazing with the unadulterated pleasure of creation. Earthen shades of green and brown swirled to cover every inch of the snowy white landscape, a foundation upon which he could build, and—oh –build, he would.

Over the course of several days, he poured his soul onto his palette, mopping through it with his brush and using it to transfer the essence of his core onto a bit of cloth stretched over a wooden frame. The image which emerged—both face and form –seemed to consist more of flesh and bone than solvent and hue. It bore short, sandy locks and a scar of unknown origin on its left shoulder. It was decidedly male, chaotically beautiful, and perfectly flawed. And, as best Sherlock could tell, it was as precise an image of his heart as could ever exist.

He spent entire days studying his work, touching it up and coveting the face that stared back at him. Countless times he’d lifted his brush to absolve it of its scar, and every time he stopped short. Something about that that imperfection was glorious and delicious and made him long even more for a touch he would never feel. Lost in the love of his own creation, he began refusing to leave its side. His friends—well, I say friends –would have called him a man obsessed, and truth be told, they would have been right.

Sherlock had damn near convinced himself a painting could come to life if only he could wish hard enough, imbue it with enough power. He stared at it, touched it, eventually even talked to it. And, one day, it happened, beginning with the tiniest flinch of muscle under skin. What was once an illusion of expert shading was now taking form and twitching to life. In fact, it was so brief that he was almost certain he’d imagined it… until it happened again. And that’s the day he began praying to a god he had long since denounced.

It took nearly a week for real mobility, for the canvas to loosen enough that the painting could shake itself free. Be it mute or ignorant, the image never spoke, but Sherlock loved it all the same. The day that fingertips curled around the lip of an easel and an outstretched arm beckoned Sherlock to come closer was the day everything changed. It gripped his neck when he obeyed, his own hand smoothing from the cool texture of the canvas to the silken heat of flesh. And never once did Sherlock close his eyes, absolutely unable to tear his gaze from the miracle in front of him. As their lips drew nearer, he felt the legitimate warmth of breath blanketing his face and fought an outright battle with his eyelids as they desperately tried to fall. But just before their lips could connect—before his longing for contact could be fulfilled –lids he was sure had never closed snapped open, and his flaxen-haired love stood mere inches from his face with two fingers pressed to his carotid artery.

The man looked startled—though he didn’t pull away –as Sherlock tugged his shirt aside to check for a scar he was only barely surprised to find. “I created you,” he said, his voice more than slightly rough from disuse.

“Well—” The man straightened up and adjusted his rumpled shirt. “I suspect my parents might find that bit of information distressing.”

“Where am I?”

“St. Bart’s. I’m afraid you—”

“Overdose,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes drifting to the track marks on his arm and then to the cannula in his hand, a long tube leading from away from it and toward a bag of clear liquid.

“Mm. Looks like. Almost lost you a couple times.”

“How many times have you been to my room?”

“Just once… I mean… this… this is my first. Have I done something wr—”

“No. Never. You’re perfect. Just perfect. My name’s Sherlock.” He extended a trembling hand.

The man took it with a small smile. “I wouldn’t say perfect, and even if I would, you couldn’t possibly know—”

“You’re an Army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan—possibly Iraq –after being shot in the shoulder. You feel lost, useless, maybe even bored without the excitement of battle to occupy a mind superior to those around you—a trait which often goes overlooked. This just now—talking to me –this is the most content you’ve been since coming home. And, most importantly, you’ve no idea how beautiful you are.”

“That was amazing. How did you—” He shook his head as if reaffirming his grip on reality. “My god. That mind of yours is wasted as a junk—”

“Junkie?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “John Watson—my name, I mean.”

“Captain Watson?”

The corner of John’s mouth tugged upward into a grin as a pale blush fell across his cheeks. “Yes, I suppose. No one’s called me that for ages, though. Most people opt for the more civilian title of ‘doctor.’”

“How pedestrian. You deserve better than this, John. May I call you John?” The man nodded his agreement in a manner that suggested he hadn’t entirely meant to do so. “I’m well aware the drugs do me few favours, and I don’t intend to take a chance like this again. I’m not sure how I got it so wrong as to—”

“Well, according to your chart—”

Sherlock snatched the clipboard from John’s hands and quickly read the pages as he flipped through. “I was swindled. Bait and switch. Give me my phone.” He held out his hand expectantly.

John reached for the drawer that was clearly closer to Sherlock than himself and pulled out a mobile. “You couldn’t have gotten this for yourself?” he asked, placing it in Sherlock’s open palm. “You do realize I’m your doctor rather than your personal assistant?”

“Yet you did as I asked without so much as a word of argument.” Sherlock grinned as he quickly tapped out a message and hit send. “Well, that’s dealt with. Now, when will I be released? I’d rather like to show you to our flat.”

“If all goes well—” John stopped as his brain caught up. “Wait. _Our_ flat?”

”You can’t possibly wish to stay in the hovel you’ve been calling home, and I’m in desperate need of a flat share. Besides, you have a nagging desire to help people, to look after them and save them. You’ll want to be sure I stay away from the needle, and you can’t stand the idea of me walking out of here and you never knowing what became of me.”

“You know, I don’t make a habit of shacking up with my drug addicted patients.”

“Good. Then I needn’t worry about losing you to the next one you encounter. I don’t think I could survive it if I did.”

John looked at him warily. “It’s not appropriate. And what did you mean you created me?”

“Later,” Sherlock promised. “Just come see the flat when I’m released.” And, once again, John nodded in spite of himself.

With one foot across the threshold the following afternoon, Sherlock and John both already knew that neither of them would be soon to leave. Sherlock did away with his stash without a second thought and spent the next several weeks explaining the dream he’d had while in what he’d since learned was a coma. At first, he left out the bit about them nearly kissing, but he came clean after six months of unresolved sexual tension when their lips finally did meet, and it was even better than he had imagined it would be.

When they fell into bed that night—long, gangly limbs tangled with shorter, sturdier ones –their first time lacked all the grace and finesse that entertainment media would have you believed could and should exist while making love. It was sloppy and awkward and filled with trial and error. They giggled and grunted and fumbled around like blind men in a ball pit. But, when they got it right, they _really_ got it right.

They learned to fit with one another perfectly, two pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow slotted together—one filling all the gaps of the other, creating a harmony unmatched in all the universe. Their lives were filled with danger and excitement and more experimentation than was decent or sane—both in and out of the bedroom. Their story was a love story—one that would last through the ages. It was transcendental, and their life together was a work of art. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: the head and the heart—inseparable without dire consequences, utterly dependent on one another and functioning on a higher plane than the rest of the world. If ever fate existed, it may have existed only to bring them together… and England was all the better for their union.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it was so short. I wrote this rather quickly in the car on the way home from visiting family for Christmas. I hope I did it some degree of justice though!
> 
> Feel free to comment! <3


End file.
